


There Is Music And Love Everywhere

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-09 03:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: It's not a tango, but they still dance just for two.Prompt: #IneffableHusbands day 1: dancing, music, poetry.





	There Is Music And Love Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'The Millionaire Waltz', of course by Queen.

In the year since the attempted apocalypse, a year of… retirement, Aziraphale has found himself at a loose end. Apparently the lifting of existential dread can leave one feeling somewhat lighter, and the absence of anxiety leaves quite a lot of time for new hobbies. 

So, for the last few months he’s attended a weekly ballroom dancing class. It’s not quite the gavotte, but it's rather delightful, and after hours of gushing Crowley has finally been convinced to come along. That he’d asked when they were three bottles of wine deep, ruthlessly closing with the temptation of opening a fourth, is neither here nor there. 

*-*-*-*-*

It's just a dimly lit sports studio in North West London, tucked away above a well equipped gym, but there's a live band - university students, surprisingly good - and the bubbly atmosphere is welcoming. Aziraphale is greeted warmly, and Crowley bobs along in his wake. 

Crowley isn’t the only one in jeans, but nor is Aziraphale the only one in a suit. They’re not the only non-heterosexual couple, either, although there aren’t many, and those are mostly women. Those pairings seem to have discussed something important beforehand. 

He looks helplessly at Aziraphale as the instructor asks ladies to stand on the right, gentlemen - or those who will be leading - on the left. 

Clearly Crowley isn’t going to be asked his opinion, as Aziraphale shuffles him firmly to the right. "My dear boy, I will lead." He sniffs contemptuously. "You've never danced properly in your life." Crowley swings briefly towards outraged, but settles on amused tolerance with a roll of his hidden eyes, and dutifully holds up his arms.

A warm hand settles on his back, tucked into the sharp curve of his shoulder and wrapping around him covetously; he's still adjusting to that when Aziraphale's hand slips neatly into his. 

Oh they're close. Almost touching at thigh and hip, his torso bordered by the hand at his back and the soft curve of a waistcoated belly. He feels enveloped. 

_ One _ , two, three, _ one _, two, three.

Their waltz is awkward, at first. Crowley can't quite get the hang of the timing of the steps, or of letting Aziraphale steer them. His feet stumble over each other; he feels that maybe the rumba would be more his style, all hips and curves, but Aziraphale assures him that he's doing well, and the next week will bring them a Latin dance. Crowley feels that maybe this slow waltz is more suited to that dead language, but Aziraphale chides him for the joke. _ Not that sort of Latin. _

The music ends; others change partners while Aziraphale fusses over their grip and about the position of Crowley's hand on his arm.

Eventually, a few songs in, the movements resolve into something more like a dance. The box - _ right _ left close, _ left _ right close. Dipping between each step, letting his knees go soft and liquid. Head up, face stern, thankfully facing away from the buoyant angel, whose cheeks must be aching by now from the delighted grin that's taken up permanent residence. The occasional turn, one way and then the other, as Aziraphale spins them carefully across the dance floor.

As the last bar plays, Aziraphale dips him politely backwards, strong hand cradling his back. Crowley bends obligingly, head tipping enough for his carefully coiffed hair to fall a little out of place, until Aziraphale smiles down at him and gently tugs him upright. 

Aziraphale steps back, and Crowley is disappointed that it’s over, that he wasn’t told that it would be their last dance, but it's only for a moment as the angel rolls up his sleeves in neat, careful movements. The cuffs form precise bars above his elbows, and blond hair dusts his forearms. He doesn't loosen his bow tie, but the waistcoat is shed to lie neatly on top of his coat on a nearby chair. Crowley dares to throw his own jacket aside, wiry arms bared to firm biceps, relishing the feel of air on sweat dampened skin.

Aziraphale scurries back in time for the start of the next dance, confident and firm as he slides into the hold, textbook perfect. Crowley feels as though he’s been taken in hand. 

They're inexplicably closer, and Crowley has to pay more attention to his feet, to his head, to the taut column of his spine, to the gentle push and pull in all the places their bodies meet. Keeping track of the precise steps of the waltz sinks to the back of his mind, and he forgets everything but following Aziraphale's sway and his hand in Aziraphale's and_ one_ two three, _one_ two three.

And then - they float. Other dancers fade away and it's just the two of them, gliding together under a spotlight of stars. 

On the closing notes, he's spun, still hand in hand, then suddenly drawn close, his back to Aziraphale's chest in a gentle embrace.

The music ends. This time there's no adjustment of grip, no corrections or instructions, just the faint susurrus of their breaths below the chatter of other dancers. Crowley turns to face his dance partner, slowly letting go of the warm hand, dropping it to a softly curving waist. Aziraphale doesn't move away, looking up with shining eyes, and something surges in his chest.

"I will follow you," he says thickly. "I will follow wherever you lead me."

The band strikes up an encore.

_ One _ two three, _ one _ two three.  



End file.
